


Not Dumb.

by brejamison



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, Duckvember, Dyslexia, Fluff, Headcanon, he didnt deserve this, poor lp, space duck, young duck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brejamison/pseuds/brejamison
Summary: After being rejected from the Department of Transportation and Inter-space Travel to be an astronaut, a discourgaed young Launchpad McQuack reflects on how he started flying and gets a fresh start from a new friend.





	Not Dumb.

“McQuack?” a stern dog in a sharp uniform asked, narrow eyes glaring at his clipboard.

With a nervous stammer, Launchpad shot to his feet. “H-here! Launchpad McQuack, at your service!”

The dog didn’t look up from his paperwork. He pulled out a file from under his arm, yanked out a paper and tossed it Launchpad’s general direction.

“The Department of Transportation and Inter-space Travel regrets to inform you your application has been denied,” he deadpanned with practiced ease as the paper floated into the young duck’s shaky hands. “You may direct any and all complaints or comments to our personnel department. All complaints or comments will be filed and if necessary you’ll be contacted within seven work days if your complaint or comment comes under review.” Finally looking up from his paperwork, the old dog flashed a forced grin. “The Department of Transportation and Inter-space Travel thanks you for your interest. Have a nice day,” he recited toothily.

“Uh, wait,” Launchpad began, but the old dog snorted and walked away, muttering to himself as he flipped the page on his clipboard. “Uh, excuse me! Can you just wait a minute?”

Finally the dog stopped and turned, glaring at the young duck.

He chuckled. “Uh, sorry, sir. I’m just, uh, I’m just confused. you see, I did everything I had to to pass the selection process! I’ve been working, working really hard, I can fly anything without a problem! I made sure! if it’s got wings, I can fly it, that’s what I always say!” Noticing that he was rambling, he chuckled nervously, gulping at the bored glare of the dog. “I’m just... I’m just confused. why was I turned down?”

Rolling his eyes, the officer grabbed the report from Launchpads hand, scanning it quickly. “You failed to pass the intelligence test,” he replied, tossing the paper away again. Launchpad frowned, the report falling into his hands.

“The intelligence....” Launchpad repeated quietly, squinting at the indecipherable letters and numbers in his hand. They buzzed before him, forming a series of symbols he had couldn’t make out. The dog noticed his concentration and rolled his eyes again, stuffing the clipboard under his arm. Grabbing the report from Launchpad, he pointed to the results.

“ ‘Physical attributes: eyesight - acceptable; height - acceptable; blood pressure - acceptable; stamina - acceptable; reaction to stimuli - acceptable’,” he read mundanely.  “ ‘Leadership skills - acceptable; teamwork skills - acceptable; problem-solving skills - acceptable; engineering expertise - acceptable; technical prowess - acceptable...”

“See?” Launchpad asked desperately.  “Acceptable, acceptable, acceptable! There’s no reason I shouldn’t allowed in!”

“ ‘ _Intelligence’_ ,” the dog continued pointedly, “ ‘ _subpar’_.”

“ ‘Subpar’? ‘subpar’? What is that? What does that mean?”

Rolling his eyes, the dog tossed the report away as he turned. “It means you’re too dumb, simple-minded, dim-witted, and foolish to be an astronaut.” Pausing, he glared down his nose at Launchpad who sunk to his knees, staring broken-heartedly at damning report on the tiled floor. “And it’s never been more accurate. _Ignorant_ ,” he spat, huffing and continuing down the corridor.

Launchpad sniffed, squinting down at the report. The words swam in his watery vision, scrambling themselves into an indecipherable pattern.  “I’m... I’m not ignorant,” he sobbed quietly, a broken-hearted tear slipping off his beak and wetting the big red DENIED stamp on the report.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

He had spent his entire life wanting to be an astronaut. To rise above this cruel world and lose himself among the stars. The stars didn’t tease him. They didn’t call him dumb or stupid, common insults thinly veiling what they really meant. The stars didn’t realize how wrong the adults and bullies and doctors were. He wasn’t unintelligent or unable to learn. He wasn’t slow or delayed.

He had heard someone say it once, what he was. A gentle nursing student speaking under their breath to their friend, sharing some sympathetic gossip between the two of them, swapping theories and stories as they and the rest of the world wondered what was wrong with him.

Dis.... Disclec....

He couldn’t remember what it was, he had never been able to, but something about the sound of it fit. It felt right, so much more so than dim-witted or stubborn did. it felt like him.

Diclectic? Diclendic?

If he could only remember what the word was he could scream it, shout it, to anyone and everyone who would listen. To his teachers and classmates and doctors. To his parents and uncles and neighbors. To that old dog in the DTIT and the approved candidates and the selection board. Everyone would know what was wrong with him and they’d let him do everything he’d always wanted. He’d read his parents a bedtime story, he’d spell all those words like "definitely" and "phone" and "laughter". He’d yell in his doctor’s face about how he wasn’t being lazy or careless or how he wasn’t lying about his headaches. He’d dance and sing and read and…

They’d let him go to space. As long as someone read the instructions to him he could do it. He knew he could. That’s how his parents helped him get through school. Well, until doctor Quacksky told them not to. Until he put it in their heads that they were only encouraging his irrational and immature behavior. He hated doctor Quacksky for telling them that. He cursed the physician late into the night when his head hurt so badly he threw up in his dirty laundry and when he was so frustrated he could only cry himself to sleep and hope the teacher didn’t call on him the next day.

But if he could only remember that word, everything would be better he knew it. He’d get help. He’d be able to understand what was going on for once instead of just smiling and playing along. He’d be able to participate in class, to read the spelling words, to answer the questions with confidence.

Launchpad sighed, flopping onto his old cot. He stared tiredly up at his posters and postcards and pictures plastered all over his ceiling from the places he’d been. He had always tried to get the souvenirs without text. After all, what good did a title ever do for him? He knew the names of the places, he didn’t need to be reminded.

The first was from Spoonerville, a small town just across the river. But someone needed a pilot and was desperate enough to hire a craft that a McQuack had worked on…

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

“Sorry, mister, we’re just mechanics here. But if you can wait a bit, Mr... uh...?”

“Armstrong!” the man gasped, nervous and wringing his hands. “Archibald Armstrong and I have to get back to Spoonerville now!”

“Well alright, Mr.  Armstrong,” Launchpad said, waving passively at the skinny dog. “The pilot - Mr. Quackmeddler, that’s the pilot here, y’see - he should be back real soon and then I’m sure he’d be happy to take you to..?”

“Spoonerville!”

The young duck nodded. “Spoonerville, right. Say, isn’t that across the river? Opposite the money bin and between the two mountain peaks?”

“Uh, yes, I s’pose,” the skinny dog replied, nervously pacing back and forth.

“Yeah, some real good flying over near those parts,” Launchpad grinned whimsically.  “Nice smooth air. Except for that little part near the plant near the mountains, of course. All that stink can really mess up the air for them flyers.”

Mr. Armstrong huffed, checking his watch. “Listen, son, do you have any idea when that pilot of yours—”

“Mr. Quackmeddler.”

“Will be back? I’ve got to get home! I’m late!”

Launchpad grinned, cocking his head. “Late? For what? The afternoon TV special? Did you see the one last week? I tried to, but Ma wouldn’t let me. Apparently it wasn’t appropriate for kids my age. You don’t think that, do you? Because I sure don’t! And I told her so too! And, _hehe_ , I’ll tell you what it got me: a good whap across the bill for talking back, that’s what it got me.” Pausing, he shrugged.  “Guess that’s what I get for disrespecting my ma—”

“My wife is giving birth!” Mr. Armstrong yelled.

Launchpad froze, grinning widely at the older dog. “ell, congratulations! To you and the missus! Ain’t that something? A brand-new father, right here in my hangar! Y’know, I think Pa keeps the special drinks around here somewhere. The ones for celebrations, y’know? At least I Mr. Quackmeddler does! If you just give me a minute I’m sure I can find them, then we can toast you and your brand-new kid!” Pausing, Launchpad frowning curiously at Mr. Armstrong’s shaking form. “Say, if you’re about to be a Pa, shouldn’t you be there with the missus instead of here with me?”

“I’m trying!” Mr. Armstrong sobbed, soaking his flannel sleeve in tears. “I’ve been trying all day! I jus’ _had_ to come to Duckberg for some business, but I got caught up and missed the train! Then I spent too long there and missed the bus! Then I couldn’t make it to the pier in time and I missed the ferry!”

“Gee, mister, sounds like you really need a pilot to get you across the river.”

“Exactly! And now I’m stuck _here_ in a barn in the middle of a field, waiting for some pilot to show up when I could’ve already missed everything!”

Slowly, Launchpad’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him. “Gee you really need a pilot.”

“I know!”

“…to get you... across the river....”

“ _I know_!”

“Well, today is your lucky day, Mr. Armstrong!” the young duck shouted suddenly, leaping off the work bench he was perched on. “I, Launchpad McQuack, am a pilot! And I will take you across the river!”

Mr. Armstrong sniffed, wiping his eyes. “You... you will?”

“Sure I will! Just, uh, don’t tell my pa, alright?”

~<><><><><><><>~

“You’ve piloted a plane before, right?” Mr. Armstrong shouted nervously from the passenger seat of Launchpad’s prop plane.

“Well, not necessarily,” the duck replied, gulping as he spun the propeller. “But I’ve been helping my pa work on them since I was kid! I know the ins and outs of this baby, no problem!” Leaping into the pilot’s seat, he buckled his seatbelt and squinted at the control panel. “Now, which of these buttons says go?”

Mr. Armstrong moaned loudly behind him, making Launchpad wince. “Uh, don’t worry, Mr. Armstrong! That was just a little, uh, pilot humor!” he grinned, desperately pressing buttons and pulling levers. Finally, he found the on switch and the engine roared to life. Launchpad squawked in surprise as it lurched forward, his shaking hands gripping at the steering rod as the plane rolled forward. It was true, he had never flown before, but he had been working on planes since he could hold a wrench. He had watched Mr. Quackmeddler take off and land hundreds of times and Launchpad understood, in theory, what each and every button and lever in Mr. Quackmeddler’s extensive airplane collection did. In theory, there wasn’t a plane out there Launchpad couldn’t disassemble and reassemble blindfolded and backwards. In theory, knowing the mechanics of the plane meant he could figure out when he was doing something wrong. In theory, of course.

“Well, Launchpad, old boy. It’s now or never,” the young duck gulped, setting his jaw and quieting his nerves. Jerkily the plane thundered down the path. Launchpad shifted left and right, trying to see and listen to the engine and gears, making sure they felt good.

 _Felt_ , what was that about? He had no idea how a plane should _feel_ , not from the cockpit and especially not while it was moving.

“Hang on to your hat, Mr. Armstrong! We’re taking off!” he yelled, flipping a few switches and steadily pulling back on the steering rod. Slowly the plane started tilting heavenward, the wind kicking up Launchpads red hair in a way he had never experienced before. It was... nice. It felt free and open, as if he was tasting some cold lemonade after a tiring day of work.

Suddenly the plane jerked to the side, shaking Launchpad out of his reverie. “Whoa! sorry about that, Mr. Armstrong!” he chuckled, yanking on the steering rod to steady the plane.  “Should be smooth sailing from here on out!”

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” Mr. Armstrong was chanting fervently.

Launchpad sighed, hurt. “Sure thing, Mr. Armstrong. sure thing.”

~<><><><><><><>~

Surprisingly, getting the plane off the ground wasn’t too difficult. Launchpad steered and listened and watched, feeling the jolts and rumbles of the machine as it jerked along the concrete. When it sounded right, he pulled back on the steering rod, slow and steady, and the plane responded, lifting into the air. It was a wild sensation, the bulk of gears and oil and parts responding to his every command. He didn’t have to talk to it and it didn’t have to talk back. No communication was involved other than flipping switches and pulling levers. The guides were color coated and he recognized the symbols from the workshop. One was oil, one was gas. The others bobbed and responded to his controlling the plane, so he figured out quickly what they meant.

Landing was a different problem, however, one that Mr. Armstrong was completely useless to help with.

“Where do you live?” Launchpad asked, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, rather than losing his heads to the clouds. “Mr. Armstrong! where do you live!”

“The—the cornfield, over there!” he replied shakily.

“You live in a cornfield?”

“No, but that’s the only place close enough that you can hope to land!”

“You gotta be kidding!” the duck growled, leaning over to examine the field. “Of all the places you shouldn’t try to land an aircraft, a cornfield is top of the list! Even I know that!”

Despite it all, the landing went rather well, relatively speaking. Sure they skidded, toppled, flipped, and rolled, but at least they were alive. Coughing, Launchpad undid his seat belt, yelping as he flopped out of the cockpit seat. Mr. Armstrong was already on his feet, shoving his way forward.

“Thanks, kid!” he shouted breathlessly.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Launchpad yelled after him, wincing as he climbed to his feet. “Mr. Armstrong, hold on! What about....” Sighing, the duck watched the retreating figure of the dog quickly disappear across the field. “…the plane. Well, congratulations to him anyway.”

Turning, Launchpad stretched his sore back, looking over the mangled corpse of the plane. “Gee, I’m sure sorry about that, fella,” he said, rubbing his hand along the bent metal.  “Guess I still have a lot to practice, huh?”

~<><><><><><><>~

The walk home was a long one, but it gave Launchpad time to think and reflect on what had just happened. He would own up for what he did to his dad and Mr. Quackmeddler first thing, of course, and he’d probably have to work for the wealthy duck for the rest of his life to pay for the plane. Which was what he deserved, he supposed. Secretly, he was glad for it. Job security was hard to come by nowadays, especially for the McQuacks, but it also meant he would be around planes for the rest of his life too, which suited him just fine. Maybe he could work his way through the ranks, learn and work hard enough to become chief mechanic. No one would have to know of his reading problem if he played it smart enough.

That was another thing; his reading problem. All his life he had had trouble reading. He wasn’t dumb or slow or anything. He just had trouble putting words together sometimes. If he was being honest, he had trouble putting words together _all the time_ , but not even his parents knew it was that bad. And he couldn’t let them know either. They’d feel bad and be sad and make him see doctors and specialists and other people who would tell him he’s not trying hard enough or just needs to stop being lazy.

The plane, however, didn’t care that he couldn’t read right. He knew the symbols on the dashboard and with a little more studying he could figure out how to read the gauges. The noises, though, and the _feeling_ of the machine, that he could read better than a picture book. Understanding what the plane was telling him felt almost second nature, like remembering how many turns to take on his way to school or how many lights to cross to get to the grocers’. He was a little rusty, of course, but it felt right in a way nothing else ever had. The plane was a puzzle piece that fit Launchpad, that filled in all the empty spots left by his inability to read.

But working on them wasn’t enough. The gears and levers and bits were a language he understood, of course, one he could read without a problem. But they didn’t give him the big picture. They were little, oddly shaped pieces to a black and white puzzle. One that he could see and enjoy, but never experience. Not fully, not like he had today. Soaring through the air, high above everyone’s expectations and ridicules and disappointment. Up there he was free to be himself, weightless and soaring and floating without a care in the world.

The sun was setting by the time he made it back to the hangars and Mr. Quackmeddler’s small private airport. The angry yelling and shouting inside made him suddenly wary of entering, so he sat and waited. And when he got tired of waiting, he wandered. The chilly wind blew and he tightened his scarf, tugging his cap on a little tighter. The kids at school hated his hat, but he didn’t care. They hated him for lots of other reasons, why should he let their opinion of his favorite hat bother him? After a while of wandering, he looked back to the hangars far in the distance and decided he had gone far enough. Pa always warned him about traveling too far from the strip. Still, he wasn’t ready quite yet to go back and face his fate. This very well could be the last chance he would ever have to look at the stars before Mr. Quackmeddler locked him up in a workshop for the rest of his life, so he was going to take it.

Oddly enough, the thought of never seeing the stars again troubled him a lot more than he thought it would. It broke his heart, in fact. Sighing, he lied down in the grass, letting the unending expanse of the heavens absorb him as his mind floated over the last day.

Flying had been nice. No, flying had completed him, touched his very soul. He needed more and distantly wondered if he was suddenly addicted to the rush of sensation. But, despite it all, it wasn’t enough. If he was really going to be free, He couldn’t do it on earth. On earth, even in the air, he would still have to land and refuel or make repairs or replenish his supplies. And that meant people and all that came with them.

No, if he really was going to be free, good and properly free, he would have to leave earth.

After a while, the shouting stopped and his Pa came and sat next to him with a heavy sigh.

“I’m going to space, pa,” Launchpad said quietly. He could feel his father’s cautious nod and knew exactly what he was thinking. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll... I’ll get in shape! I’ll study, I’ll learn to fly any and everything that has wings. Just you watch, Pa. I’ll get to the stars if it’s the last thing I do.”

His father sighed, and Launchpad hated the sound of it.

“I’m sure you will, son. I’m sure you will.”

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

Launchpad groaned, opening his eyes as he slowly came back to reality. He had fallen asleep under his decorated ceiling at some point, dreaming of the first ever time he ever flew. Yawning, he stretched, wondering what time it was and why he had the nagging sensation that something terrible had happened. A crinkle under his arm jogged his memories.

Oh yeah. The application. His denial.

Sighing, Launchpad sat up. He grabbed the report and stared at it, desperately willing the words he knew were there to unravel themselves enough that he could make sense of them.

“What was it that other guy had said?” he asked the silence around him, straining to remember all the categories. Physical ability, leadership skills, stress management – he had passed all of them. Each and every one, he had made sure of it before he even tried. And yet, it somehow wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The DTIT was so happy and willing to just throw him aside because he couldn’t read. Was it really that important? There were lots of people in the world who couldn’t read English, yet they made it through their lives just fine. Why couldn’t he??

Launchpad sighed. That wasn’t the point and he knew it. Those people could at least read _something_ , which was a lot more than he could.

All his work, training, practice, studying, and learning was useless - pointless. Years and years of his life spent getting ready for this day and he was given a big red DENIAL.

A knock on the door startled the duck out of his self-pity, making him squawk in surprise.

“Yeah, hang on!” he called, climbing off his cot and trudging out of the room. The hangar had been empty for years, forgotten and left behind as Mr. Quackmeddler moved on to find “more reliable” mechanics. Without anywhere else to go during his quest to train, Launchpad had ended up here, back where it all began. His scribbled notes decorated the area, drawings of clocks to remind him of appointments he had missed a long time ago were scattered here and there and meticulously labeled canisters and bottles lined the shelves. His room and souvenirs were tucked away in the corner, leaving plenty of room for Launchpad’s sole valuable possession: his biplane.

Another impatient knock hurried his pace slightly. “Alright, hold onto your hat! I’m on my way! If you’ve come to collect, you can forget it! I’m caught up in payments, and I know it!” he shouted as the large hangar door rumbled noisily off the ground. “Don’t think you can pull a fast one on Launchpad McQuack!”

“Me?” his visitor asked, sounding slightly insulted. “I wouldnae dream of it! I’ve never cheated a man out of anything a day in my life, and you can bet your bottom dollar I willnae start now!”

Launchpad blinked, taken back by the short, smartly dressed duck standing before him, rambling in an accent he vaguely recognized.

“Say, you’re from Scotland, ain’t yah?” he asked, grinning excitedly.

The duck huffed, crossing his arms. “Ay, lad. That I am. And, curse me kilts, I find myself in desperate need of a pilot.”

Launchpad gasped. “I’m a pilot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at thebreenutgallery where I post Ducktales art and angsty comics!


End file.
